


American Boyfriend

by staples



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Buffalo Sabres, Drunk Sex, Getting Together, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-02-15 02:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staples/pseuds/staples
Summary: Jake doesn’t need to be special. Jake can just be Jake.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oy. I've been working on this for awhile, and I'm happy to finally get it up. It should be updating about once a week for... five weeks? Tags added as I go. Title from Kevin Abstract.
> 
> The quickest primer ever- [This is Rasmus.](https://nhl.bamcontent.com/images/photos/279302636/1136x640/cut.jpeg) If there is not food or winning involved, he's upset. [This is Jake.](https://nhl.bamcontent.com/images/photos/293732202/568x320/cut.jpeg) I had to scroll a bit to find a recent picture where he looked good and didn't have a gruesome face injury. Good Wisco boy who captained Team USA to their second most recent WJC gold. (Rasmus got the OT golden goal for Finland the year after.) They are both defensemen for the Buffalo Sabres. Yes, we know. Anyway-

The night starts in Jake’s favor; Marco’s still trying to sniff out the best that Buffalo’s breweries have to offer, most of the team can appreciate a good beer, and Jake likes it all well enough that he’s willing to act like it’s his first go-around.

Rasmus comes out, too. It’s not quite something he  _ doesn’t  _ do, but—he has his own life away from the team. His collection of fellow Finnish expats, plus Larry. He’s still around plenty, so possibly Jake should be familiarizing himself with the other, what,  _ ten? _ new guys on the Sabres’ roster.

Instead, Jake throws an arm over over wide pale shoulders that only tense for a moment before Rasmus looks up and recognizes him. His hair is getting a little long, enough that Jake could see the baby duck fuzz of it fighting through the gel he applied that morning. Probably, he’d be getting it cut soon now that he’s settled back in the city.

Jake takes all this in before glancing at the bar top in front of them, where long fingers are loosely wrapped around a dark, freshly-tapped glass, condensation still mostly unblemished.

“You’re not going to like that,” Jake says. “Too earthy.”

Rasmus’ mouth pinches slightly, like it’s some sort sort of challenge, and Jake wants to laugh at how predictable he is. It’d been a long summer.

“Scandella said it’s the best,” Rasmus insists, annunciating carefully through a summer-thick accent.

“‘Scandella,’ please,” Jake dismisses. They’re team now, and it’s not like Marco wasn’t brought in so they’d have someone who can actually keep up with Rasmus. “Have you followed him in Instagram yet? It’s  _ Scandeezy  _ now.”

Rasmus’ shoulders shift under Jake’s arm, shrugging before pulling out his phone. Absently, he brings the beer up to his mouth as he types, then barely controls a grimace when it passes his lips.

Jake does laugh at that.

He ends up finishing off that first glass for Rasmus, then they start poking through the rest of the menu. It’s something of a lost cause, since Rasmus’ favorite beer will always be the one that tastes the least like beer, but Jake has fun watching Rasmus be reminded. Maybe too much fun, because after a third glass of failed expectations and chirping, Rasmus narrows his eyes just a fraction before saying, “Do you want to try something a little harder?”

Traditionally, Jake knows better than to try and outdrink a Finn. But, already a comfortable few drinks in from a source in his own wheelhouse, his sense of self-preservation stays silent as Rasmus orders them something that both tastes like fire and nothing.

Once Jake’s tongue stops tingling and the smug look eases off of Rasmus’ face, the conversations turns to their summers, the bartender lingering closely for refills.

“Had Duffer stalk me out in Chicago for a BBG thing. Or, like, it wasn’t that bad. Ate some eggs, did some training, went out on the river,” Jake tells him, because he’s never sure what Rasmus picks up over the summer. He tends towards radio silence, popping in for time-sensitive plans and particularly chirp-worthy offenses.

Rasmus looks intent now, though, his glass blue eyes locked on Jake’s face. He says, “I did, too. Not with Duffer, mostly just training. And they were after Laine.”

He smirks at that, and something in Jake’s stomach swirls, the thought that Rasmus deserves that attention, even though he’d hate it, and at Laine.

Jake asks the only thing that makes sense of it all. “So he’s… good?” 

“Yes, Jake, Patrik is fine,” Rasmus practically scoffs. “Really. He’s bigger than me, it’s, ah, impressive. For an undersized defenseman. Sturdy.”

Jake sizes Rasmus up instead of responding to the undersized dig. He tells himself it’s for comparison’s sake, but his mind drops the pretense quickly, content to just soak in the summer bulk of Rasmus, clothes that fit comfortably in the middle of the season straining against his thighs and his arms and his chest now.

He watches as Rasmus pulls his fat, flushed bottom lip through his teeth, looking back at Jake.

“I can throw my weight around,” Jake says, deeper than he means to, probably.

Rasmus’ eyes slide for a moment, before catching Jake’s again. “There’s a river in Chicago?”

The non sequitur startles a bark of laughter out of Jake, before he rewinds back and says, “Yes! God. The  _ Chicago  _ River, even.”

Jake must have dropped his arm at some point awhile ago, but they didn’t move apart, shoulders pressed together as Jake draws a rough map of the wishbone divvying up Chicago. He pinpoints a few extra spots: where his apartment was, a couple of his favorite restaurants, tourist trap for reference. It seems impossible that they’ve really never went far enough east to hit the bridges, but Jake supposes there have only been so many opportunities. It’s only been two years that he’s been  _ up, _ even though it feels like a lifetime, and it’s not like driving out to meet the Wolves had ever inspired an urge to explore.

“I’ll take you riverside next time we’re out there, it’s sick,” Jake promises, even though he hasn’t exactly committed the schedule to memory yet, and even if he had, it’d probably have been overwhelmed by the sudden mental images of Rasmus everywhere Jake had been all summer, sunglasses on, comfortable, like he belonged there. “You’d really like—well.”

Rasmus is looking at him with this—look, both like he’s paying very close attention to what Jake’s saying but only partially cares about what’s coming out of his mouth, just enough to repeat, “‘Well?’”

Jake should probably just drop the thought, but he can’t, it’s there, rolling over and over in his head. “I was going to say you’d like this guy I got my suits from. I keep him boring, but you’d probably like the other things he does. But you’d drive him crazy.”

“How?”

The designer, Anton, has always been very direct. Jake knows that he dislikes Jake’s taste of neutrals and his haircut, or lack thereof. Jake also knows where Anton’s tastes narrow in: Jake’s back, the elegant neck of a certain lawyer that comes in occasionally, and—

“Your lips,” Jake says. He should leave it there, two words that reveal plenty on their own, but a flame has made a home in his chest and stomach so he just pushes forward to blurt out, “You have a mouth made for sucking cock. As he would say.”

If nothing else, it’s satisfying to watch Rasmus’ face round out in shock, wide eyed and that mouth dropping open just a fraction. He’s quiet for a long few moments, but he doesn’t move back, look away.

When Rasmus does speak again, it’s only to say,  _ “Really?” _

Jake snorts, “Come on, I can’t be the first to tell you that. You go out enough.”

He raises his hand for a friendly chuck against Rasmus’ chin, but it doesn’t quite feel like an accident when he misses his mark, the back of a knuckle glancing softly against a slick lip.

That doesn’t break the intense stare Rasmus has leveled on him. When Rasmus speaks, Jake leans in against the noise of the crowd, and what he hears sends fire down his spine.

“Do you think that? That I’d look good with a cock in my mouth?”

Jake leans back first.

His preference isn’t exactly a secret. Maybe not public, and with the roster turnover they’ve had it’s not something he gives out too freely, but Rasmus, at least, would have the opportunity to know by now. Jake isn’t sure that he does. Did. He isn’t the type to ask. Isn’t the type to do  _ this, _ either, Jake can’t believe, but  _ wants, _ so he shrugs and hangs another ambiguous, “I trust his taste in aesthetics.”

Rasmus stares, hard, and says, “There are some things you should know for yourself, yeah?”

 

 

They’re in a cab back to Jake’s apartment, sitting an appropriate distance apart as their driver tells them about his high hopes for the season. He’s friendly about it, so Jake waits until there’s a lull from his end to lean towards Rasmus, who’s been mostly silent since they left the bar, and ask lowly, “How drunk are you?”

Rasmus takes a calculative moment before responding. “Not very. Are  _ you?” _

There’s a teasing lilt to it that makes Jake want to deny instantly, but even when he checks in on himself, he doesn’t feel gone enough to justify... this. Maybe it’d be better if he was, if he could just right it off as a heated, impulsive blur instead of being this painfully aware of every red light, every inch between them, every shift from the other side of the bench.

“I’m great,” Jake says, dry, pleased when Rasmus quirks his lips.

They pull to a stop outside Jake’s complex, and he gives a good enough tip to hopefully keep up the good will as the driver says, “Hey, you boys have a good season!”

“We’ll do our best,” Jake promises, then follows Rasmus as he slides out the door.

Jake isn’t the sort of host that Ryan or the older guys are, but Rasmus has been over enough that he should know his way around. Still, he waits for Jake to take the lead into the lobby, up the elevator, and through his front door.

The apartment still doesn’t look quite settled, yet, too stark in one corner then overflowing in another. Rasmus takes a moment to look in as Jake flips on the bare minimum of lights, suddenly a little self-conscious of what he might be taking from it.

“Do you want some water or something?” Jake asks, a nervous hospitable tic. 

“No,” Rasmus says. He doesn’t smile but he still has this  _ look  _ on his face, one that Jake doesn’t quite recognize and doesn’t know what to do with here; for obvious reasons, Rasmus doesn’t fit under the same category as a regular hook-up, one that Jake can get in and out with relative ease and quickness without any hurt feelings, but they aren’t established, either, not like this. Whatever  _ this  _ is, or could become.

Before he can let his own late-in-the-game hesitance overwhelm the moment, Rasmus is leaning in. Their lips are the only planes that touch for a long moment, soft and wet, until Jake feels himself loosen and press closer. The kiss comes easy, smoothing away any anxious rush or nervous stillness. Rasmus has a few inches on Jake but feels lean chest-to-chest, long fingers slipping carefully under the hem of Jake’s shirt and picking at the hem of his pants. 

Jake leans back just barely far enough to speak, lips still brushing, “What, you desperate enough to suck my dick in my kitchen?”

Rasmus tenses, then snorts, stepping back, pushing his bare hand against Jake’s stomach as he says, “Lead the way.”

“It’s cool if that’s what you’re into, I know you like to eat plenty—”

Rasmus huffs a laugh, smiling to one side. It strikes Jake that he’s never really thought of Rasmus as someone with _ dimples, _ but there they are.  _ “Go,” _ he insists. 

Jakes bedroom is in a slightly better condition than the rest of his apartment, if only because he can shove shit into his closet. His bed is unmade, but soon they’re covering it up.

He’s not sure how he would’ve thought sex with Rasmus is like, either; quiet, definitely, a little pushy, maybe, but there’s a touch of franticness he might not have pinned, too. They kiss just long enough for the heat to pick up, Jake’s breath catching, before Rasmus moves on, lips pressing gentle against Jake’s neck for a short few seconds before migrating even further south. He spends longer with his face just pressed against where Jake’s stomach meets his hip, fingers fumbling with his pants’ button.

“Come on, you can do it,” Jake coaxes, just condescending enough to get a flash of blue eyes and to feel denim being yanked down over the curve of his ass.

Effectively goaded,Rasmus makes quick work of pulling down Jake’s boxers, too, and wrapping his fingers around Jake’s cock when it rolls out against his leg. He stares, long enough that Jake would probably squirm if he was all the way sober, but instead it just makes him feel hot, the way Rasmus’ eyes stay glued on him, glancing up just to say, “How do you like it?”

Jake wavers.  _ However you like to give it. _ “Lots of tongue. Just—”

Rasmus just barely leans in when Jake gets a hand in his hair, down soft; maybe he really had gone without the gel tonight. He doesn’t pull or push, just follows as Rasmus bows down, tongue licking at the crown of his dick before taking him in. Jake shudders and sighs, thighs flexing. Rasmus’ eyebrows furrow as he starts to establish a rhythm, tongue wide and firm against the underside, fingers squeezing at what he can’t reach.

It’s decent head, and Rasmus looks better than Jake had even dared picturing in the last hour. His mouth is obscene, of course, staining an even deeper red as it strains and drags over Jake’s cock, wetting as he gets less thorough with swallowing down spit. More than that, though, is being the focus of Rasmus’ attention, the intent way he maneuvers his tongue, eyes flicking up to Jake like he’s measuring his responses. It’s a lot.

It’s one of those times when their eyes meet that Jake drops his hand from the crown of Rasmus’ head to thump under his eye, rub against the red of his stretched-open mouth. “You like this?” Jake asks, because he’s curious, but Rasmus’ cheeks just burn hotter before he looks away and slides deeper.

When he doesn’t look up again for a long minute, Jake huffs, reaches down again with both hands, twists his fingers with Rasmus’ until his dick is in his own hand, the other returning to Rasmus’ hair. The whole process makes Rasmus lean back just a hair, dick popping out his mouth once again, a questioning look on his face. Gently, Jake pushes his head back down and guides himself back into Rasmus’ mouth. Rasmus goes easily as Jake sets an easy rhythm, pushing and thrusting against Rasmus’ face. He’s not mean about it, but he can’t help but want to push, see where this can go, and it’s not exactly a surprise the first time Rasmus coughs hard and pulls back. He doesn’t go far, doesn’t even let Jake’s dick fall out of his mouth, eyes wide and watery as he wraps his fingers around Jake’s hips.

It goes like that, Jake pushing just a little farther, Rasmus grinding against the mattress below him as his grip keeps adjusting, until those wide hands are grabbing at Jake’s ass, pulling him closer as those long fingers dig in so close to where Jake could take him.

“Fuck,” Jake gasps, hips jerking thoughtlessly. “You wanna fuck me?”

Rasmus does pull back fully at that, voice rough as he gasps, “What?”

“Do you want to fuck me?” Jake asks, because he’s too fucked up on all of this to try and be clever.

Luckily, Rasmus doesn’t need much convincing, asking, “You want me to fuck you?” even as he scrambles up to his knees again. His dick looks like it’s straining painfully against his too-tight jeans—but maybe that’s just the style.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Jake gasps, even though _ I don’t see anyone else here _ is right on the tip of his tongue. They’re still in too many clothes,  _ how  _ are they still both near-fully dressed, and Jake has to find a way to kick off his pants, wrestle out of his shirt, and dig the lube and condoms out of his bedside drawer.

He checks the expiration date, just to be sure, but it’s the stuff he brought from back home.

Rasmus got the stripping memo without Jake having to speak up, and, god, it’s insane how much different he looks out of the professional glow of their locker room. Jake would be a liar if he said he’d never looked before, but somehow he never saw before. When he reaches out again, Rasmus feels every bit of cream velvet over marble as he looks. Jake pulls Rasmus down over him, just letting them press together for a blissful, scorching moment.

Still, it doesn’t take long for impatience to settle in. Jake fumbles with the lube, and Rasmus has to lean back so that they can actually do anything, Jake lifting one leg to the side. Rasmus seems somewhat insistent of fingering Jake, but he can feel the energy in him, the disjointed rush, and he can only put up with it for so long before he says, “Just—you can just put it in me.”

Rasmus looks up sharply from where his hand has disappeared between Jake’s legs. He says, with no small amount of distrust, “Are you sure?”

Jake isn’t sure if it’s an accident, just Rasmus dick bumps against his leg. He doesn’t need to look down again to be reminded how, uh,  _ substantial  _ the task he’s setting himself up for is.

“Yeah. Go slow, and I’ll be fine,” Jake promises. He’s done as much before. Challenge builds character and whatnot.

Rasmus doesn’t look all too trusting. His eyes glance around: Jake’s face, the lube and condoms, their dicks, where Rasmus is going to disappear into, back at the condoms.

“Do you want me to lace you up?” Jake asks, half-joking.

Rasmus swallows. “Yeah.”

So Jake does, has Rasmus sit back enough that he can get his hands around him  _ (god,) _ pinches the tip and rolls the condom down in a fluid motion before drizzling a generous supply of lube onto him. He gets himself wet, too, one last time, before lying back and canting his hips up.

Rasmus needs a few more invitations. Jake pulls him closer, wraps his legs around Rasmus’ waist, helps guide him in, holds him there as he adjusts to the blooming stretch of being opened by a cock like the one Rasmus is packing.

The whole time, Rasmus’ eyebrows stay knitted together, teeth clenched. Jake isn’t sure if that’s just his  _ face, _ or—

“We don’t have to, if you’re not into it,” Jake offers when he can breathe again.

“I am,” Rasmus insists, so quickly that Jake can’t do anything but believe him.

“Okay,” Jake says. “You can move again.” 

And Rasmus does, so slowly that Jake would almost think he’s fucking with him, no joke, if it wasn’t for that same concentration on Rasmus’ face. It made Jake feel… looked after, and even though that isn’t something he needs like this, he can feel himself melting into it, and maybe that helps Rasmus relax, too, because soon enough he finds his own rhythm, a little tentative but thorough. Once he finds that spot that punches noises straight out of Jake’s gut, he doesn’t let go, fucking in with a building certainty that has Jake’s toes curling.

Jake tries to hold off, not wanting anything in this moment to end, but eventually his orgasm seems to throb through every nerve in his body, pulsating almost painfully with need until he finally cracks and reaches for his own dick, still wet against his stomach.

Somehow, Rasmus is still in his mind to gasp, “I can—” but Jake is already gone, groaning as his body tenses and strains as he shoots against himself.

Rasmus stills through the process, arms iron rods on either side of Jake. “Did you?” Jake gasps, and when Rasmus doesn’t answer, he forces his legs to draw him closer. “Come you, you can keep going, take it—”

This time, Rasmus doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s shaking from it, careful like unsure about Jake, so Jake keeps talking him through it, hands wandering, even getting a handful of ass before Rasmus jerks one last and slumps to the side.

And then, Jake’s room is peacefully still. Neither of them move, or speak.

Jake may even fall asleep for a moment, because between one moment and the next it feels like he goes from completely sated to unbearably tacky. He knows by now it’s a feeling that only gets worse if he complies with his overwhelming urge to just pass out. Carefully, he slides off of his bed, groaning as he gets his feet under him. “Bathroom,” he announces.

Once he’s in his en suite, he goes through his regular routine, brushing his teeth and showering off the worst of it. He should know better than to take a hot shower like this, and he’s not sure if he’s gone for five minutes or fifty when he finally makes it back out.

On his bed, Rasmus is sitting up at the edge, fingers grasping the edge. A quick glance confirms that he’d taken care of the condom sometime when Jake was gone.

Fuck, even his soft dick is cute.

“I should… also—” Rasmus forces out brokenly, maybe as dead tired as Jake is.  _ Cute. _

“Sure,” Jake says, curling around him to the other side of the bed. “Make it quick, ‘m tired.”

Rasmus disappears into the bathroom as Jake fishes his sheets off of the ground. He settles to one side as he tries to decide who’s more deserving of the wet spot, the host or the top, but before he can come to a final decision, he’s asleep.

 

 

It’s not quite a surprise when Jake wakes alone. He doesn’t put much thought into it. Last night was—what it was. Rasmus seems like the type to really like his own bed. 

There are a few things out of place: his sheets pulled up neater than he’d bothered, his clothes draped over a chair, a glass he never drank out of wet next to his sink.

None of it has to mean anything.

 

 

That probably would have been the end of it, too, except the next time they see each other—practice, pre-season, another new coach, a bizarre balance of routine and brand new—Rasmus slides up next to him and asks, low, “So, was it as good as you thought?”

“Was what?” Jake asks, and he’s trying to tell himself it must be a movie they were talking about or something, but Rasmus dissolves that into dust as he presses his tongue against the inside of his lip, straining it.

Jake stares, even as it drags into a smirk. He’s only human.

“I don’t know,” Jake says, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell after just once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... future chapters will have more plot, I promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supplemental- [Jake's summer in Chicago](http://jakemcbabe.tumblr.com/post/166233468794/whats-your-name-jake-mccabe-sorry-i-dont) and [Rasmus walking around his apartment in his underwear.](https://scandella.tumblr.com/post/159556373030/x)

Afternoon games are never fun—players enjoy their routines, and an early start time is in direct opposition of that. They’re made even worse when they become the second game in a row where your team allows six goals against.

Everyone trickles out in singles or doubles, struck sideways and sour, the only upside of the day’s messed-up schedule making it too early for people to throw around half-hearted dinner plans.

Jake stews alone in his apartment for two hours before he gets itchy from it, and he can’t be the only one, because alerts slowly start to trickle back in from the various group chats. Some of the younger guys are brewing up plans to convert leftover frustrations into a night on Chippewa, which sounds better than sitting around in the dark for the rest of the night.

He’s typing up his response when he notices that Rasmus hadn’t spoken up yet. Not exactly surprising, and it’s probably not something Jake would’ve thought twice about even a couple weeks ago, but—

Jake backs out of the group, opens up a private message to send,  _ What are you up to? _

He gets a  _ read  _ alert almost instantly, but Rasmus always takes his time responding, even if it’s just to say,  **At home eating.**

It’s another sign of the times, perhaps, that a bubble of warmth pops in Jake’s chest even as he sends a more pointed,  _ Interested in some company? _

Another long pause before his buzzes again:  **Sure.**

 

They don’t hug or anything when Rasmus lets Jake in. It’s obvious as soon as Jake steps through the front door that Rasmus had actually  _ cooked  _ something, a warm scent that definitely come from any of the premade meals their trainers provide hanging in the air that Jake can’t quite place.

“What is that?” he asks, pushing past Rasmus and walking towards the kitchen.

“Ah,” Rasmus answers, trailing after him. “Traditional Finnish food?”

When Jake actually reaches the stove, he can’t help but bark out a laugh. “That looks like Spaghettios and hot dogs, bud.”

“It’s called nakkikastike,” Rasmus insists, coming up behind him Jake and nudging him out of the way.

“I don’t care what you call it, oh my god. Here I was, thinking I only had two teammates who couldn’t feed themselves, while you’re two blocks away eating like a child—” 

“I do fine,” Rasmus grouses. He pulls some roasted potatoes out of the oven, which Jake does recognize as their usual brand, cut small and well-flavored. “Are you eating or just talking shit?”

Jake does take some, because it’d feel rude not to and he’s curious. They sit at Rasmus’ dining table but face his TV, Monday Night Football playing on low volume.

“Go Vikings, right?” Rasmus says, leg spreading until his knee knocks against Jake’s, shit-eating smirk spreading over his face. Jake just squints at him for a minute, not quite sure from which direction the jab is coming from, mostly charmed that Rasmus thought of it at all.

“My parents are from Minnesota, so,” Jake says with a shrug, “I’m probably not the most loyal NFC North guy.”

Rasmus scoffs and scoops a mouthful of franks and potatoes into his mouth. It’s not quite what Jake expected from the night, but—Jake follows his lead; the food is better than Jake expected, simple and somehow familiar. 

  
  


 

The season picks up. They play another three games after the blowout against the Devils before picking up their first win of the season in overtime, only to end the road trip with another loss. Two days at home, and then another loss against Vancouver before flying out to Boston for a bruising high-scoring game that ends in another scrambled overtime win.

It’s hard. Jake loves it, but—

When other guys stumble off of the team plane, they get to disappear into homes filled with their wives or girlfriends or children. Jake goes home to an empty apartment, aside from a succulent his sister got him that vaguely creeps him out, even if he refuses to let it die.

Jake doesn’t fall asleep easy, sprawled sideways across his king bed with the city sprawled outside his window.

  
  


 

They have an early optional skate the next morning. Jake still feels restless enough that joins the guys on the ice, running some of the new drills Housley brought in, pushing just enough to be on the right side of sore by the end. He doesn’t see Rasmus until after practice, dressed casually, skin unblemished, hair slicked back, the exact opposite of Jake’s post-shower self. His phone distracts Rasmus long enough for Jake to sneak up on him and drop a shoulder into his ribs.

“Hey,” Jake says. “What’re you up to?”

There’s only one real answer, quick is probably why Rasmus looks at him strangely for a moment before responding, shortly, “Talked with Coach. Strategy. You know.”

Jake does know. The know their own play, know the things being written, and—

Jake has his role on this team. Rasmus has his. It’s no secret whose shoulders the pressure is coming down on, who has greater expectations to rise to.

It’s hard. Jake takes in the way Rasmus’ gaze has cut away, the unhappy pinch of his lips, and offers, “Do you want to come over tonight?”

Maybe it wasn’t very tactful to ask in the middle of their locker room, their teammates still milling around, making plans of their own—some of which will probably wrap around Jake and Rasmus soon enough—and Jake can see panic flash through Rasmus’ eyes for a split second. He shifts, stands taller, fidgeting for another long moment. A cool, tight tendril twists around Jake’s own stomach and he says, “You don’t have to.”

“No,” Rasmus practically interrupts, eyes snapping back towards. “I—I’ll stop by.”

“Okay. Cool,” Jake responds, a helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Around seven alright?”

“Sure.”

 

Jake thinks hard about what to make on the drive back. Thinks about mimicking some Finnish dish, dismisses the idea quickly. It’s not like Rasmus doesn’t enjoy food Jake actually has some idea how to make.

It feels like cheating when he settles on chicken and pasta, but, well, it’s a classic for a reason.

He has to start pretty early; the recipe calls for frying, then baking, which is maybe not the healthiest option, but there’s a part of Jake that still hears his mom and his aunts huddled in the kitchen during holiday gatherings, talking among themselves,  _ They aren’t kidding, all it takes to keep a man happy is feeding him. _

It’s one of Jake’s favorites, too, so hopefully that means something.

The bottle of wine has just started to breathe when the buzzer sounds, sending Jake scrambling. He’s still dressed like he just got back from practice, and his hair had dried weird, and—  

It’s as good as it’s going to get. Jake lets Rasmus in, throws on a slightly nicer sweatshirt, picks at the worst of the flyaway strands, and then there’s a knock on the door. Rasmus in the same clothes he was wearing at the rink, which eases some of Jake’s concerns about his own clothing. He smiles, wraps a hand around Rasmus’ wrist, pulling him in, only sighing out a, “Hey.”

Rasmus only goes as far as the hallway, letting the door close behind him. He stands ramrod straight, practically looking over Jake’s head.

Jake hesitates, rubs a thumb over the bump of Rasmus’ wrist, then drops it when he just seems to tense further. “Something wrong?”

He watches as Rasmus inhales deeply, still not quite looking at Jake, and says, “You know this is a bad idea.”

“... Sure?” Jake says. He does know, objectively. Or at least how Rasmus could describe it that way. “But it’s, you know. Good?”

And maybe Jake’s stupid, because it still surprises him, somehow, when Rasmus finally meets his eyes, helpless, and answers, “We  _ can’t.” _

Maybe there’s more that could be said, but Jake feels struck dumb, in every sense of the word. He swallows hard, staring up, then down. Swallows again.

Rasmus lingers. Jake maybe sees a hand twitch in his peripheral, but it’s hard to be sure. He eventually asks, sounding unsure, “Were you cooking something?”

“Yeah. You could come in, if you wanted,” Jake says, flat and crackling in his own ears.

He’s grateful when Rasmus responds, “I should go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble of a chapter exists because I'm leaning more towards there being two more updates after this, but I'm superstitious.

“What’s going on with you? You’ve been all quiet today. Not that you’re ever, like, Shakespeare or some shit,” Nate asks. It’s after practice, guys stripping out of gear, chirping, digging into teammates’ personal lives. All to be expected.

And, because lack of discretion is also something a guy can expect from his team, Jack leans forward from way down the way to announce, “He got dumped.”

“Bullshit,” Taylor pipes in. “When were you even seeing someone?”

“I swear to god,” Jack insists. “Even had this big dinner that me and Sam ended up eating—ow, what the fuck?”

“Who would break up with  _ Caber? _ He’s the best partner a guy could ask for,” Matt says, joking, as he throws an arm over Jake’s hunched shoulders. 

“A fucking idiot. Has to be,” and now it’s Rasmus talking, softly, like he means that, and Jake can’t deal with it. He pulls sharply at his laces until they’re too tight over the arch of his foot, wraps the loose ends around the tongue, and rushes out onto the ice. 

Bad fuckin’ idea, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late, this one was a little harder on me /o\ Hopefully the final chapter will make up for it?

It stays under Jake’s skin like an infection. 

Everyday, he sees Rasmus sweating, pushing himself, pressing up close to their teammates, laughing, head back, wet and naked from the showers.

Every card game has Rasmus’ fingers, his calculating eyes, every dinner, his mouth. He doesn’t speak any louder, but it’s like Jake can’t tune away, can’t stop straining to hear any damn hint of frustration or joy.

Rasmus shows up to the Halloween party matching with Larry and Zemgus and his girl—the Cowardly Lion, Jake could almost laugh—and he can’t stop looking at the bends of Rasmus’ ankles over those stupid socks he wore all night. 

  
  


Rasmus gets hurt four days into November. It’s the opposite of what the team needs, already buried in injuries, D-core shaky even under Housley, their goal differential plummeting. Jake watches it happen, too, Rasmus grimacing on his way to the bench as Jake’s jumping the boards, skating slow, a hit late in the third leaving him bent over on the bench while the clock counts down on their fourth win of the season. When the final horn echoes through a worn-out Glendale arena, Rasmus slinks back into the trainer’s room instead of joining their hollering team.

Instead of riding through the rest of the road trip, Rasmus flies straight back to Buffalo. The rest of the team joins him a few days later, ground to dust with a 5-1 loss to the Stars on their back.

It all fucking sucks, and Jake wishes he was a good enough person not to be grateful.

There is no reason for him to be this fucked up over their… thing. Whatever it was, it barely lasted over a month. He could probably count the number of times they hooked up on his fingers. It just wasn’t enough to get Rasmus out of his system, that’s all. Maybe some time apart, without anything new to kindle that flame, will finally get that whole process off the ground.

Fucking selfish. Jake’s stomach feels like lead. 

  
  


The schedule has them on a short homestand, two game. When they beat the Capitals, Jake likes to think they’re not in such bad shape that they’re surprised, and then it’s the Panthers, which means Mark.

They meet downtown, in a restaurant near to where the visiting team’s always stay. It hadn’t been that long since they last saw each other, a shorter split than the time before  _ that, _ but there’s still a part of Jake that eases only once he’s seen the easy split of Mark’s smile as he pulls Jake into an appropriate sort of hug for men in their position. Eating together is an easy routine to fall back into.

With all the trades that Jake has witnessed, it’s hard to name the worst. Still, in his heart, Mark’s was up there. It wasn’t really a surprise; everyone knew that anyone was on block in a scramble to find the  _ jolt  _ the team needed, but they’d played good hockey together, one through a lot of the tougher parts of transitioning to the pro lifestyle together, and they’d gotten hardly anything in return. Not that that was all Kulikov’s fault. Injuries happen. 

Neither of them want to talk shop for too long; the Sabres are starting slow, Mark is starting slow, and they both know neither of them can really share the worst of it anymore. The gossip they can stay on longer, Jake filling in and Mark revealing, but eventually Mark asks, “So anything interesting happen with you?”

A harsh laugh bubbles out of Jake’s throat before he can do anything about, and when Mark’s eyebrows shoot up, he thinks about telling him. He wonders which part would be the biggest surprise to him; Mark already knows about the gay thing, but—

Jake looks at Mark’s open face and  _ misses  _ him so intensely his stomach hurts, so instead he says, “Just hook-up drama. How’s the wife, how’s married life?”

That night, Kyle puts them ahead in the first, and it’s all downhill from there.  _ Fuck. _

Rasmus spent the game the press box, although he reappears in the locker room not long after the final buzzer. He drifts over to where most of the defense sits, naturally, with that furrowed disappointed look on his face. 

“I played Trocheck during the World Cup,” Rasmus says, fingers twitching. “If I’d just been out there for that last play.”

“We’ve all played Trocheck before, Risto,” Jake feels himself snap, regretting it even as it spills out. It’s not useful. He knows Rasmus doesn’t talk that way out of narcissism, that he puts the team above everything else. 

Jake forces himself to glance up from buttoning his shirt, can only tolerate a moment of those eyes turned back towards before looking back down and adding, “Just—focus on getting better, alright? That’s the most important thing we need from you right now.”

He doesn’t look up again, and eventually he hears Rasmus move on to chirping Kyle about his first real goal of the season. The mood in the room starts to unwind and move forward. Around them, the equipment managers are buzzing. The team leaves for Montreal later that night to kick off their road trip, and Rasmus is staying in Buffalo.

Jake lets himself breathe.

  
  


The pillows in the hotel room are harder than Jake usually prefers, but he still curls around them after too many hours of no sleep.

After that first night, Rasmus and him had ended up sleeping—really sleeping—together twice. The first time had been because Rasmus got too drunk to want to travel. He’d fallen asleep sprawled over Jake’s bed, careless, and Jake hadn’t been too sober to lie his head against the solid warmth of Rasmus’ chest. The throbbing heartbeat between them could have easily been from Jake’s own blood-warmed cheeks, but he liked the feeling. Liked the thought of being able to feel something tangible and vital in Rasmus.

The pillows are just cold.

It’s stupid. These bits of Rasmus keep flickering through Jake’s memory like a tactile slide show—is that all Jake missed? The feel of someone under him? Knowing someone else’s body? That doesn’t even make sense; he’s had hookups before that lasted longer, were objectively better, if the sex is all that counts.

The fact is that Jake  _ misses  _ Rasmus, but how much sense does that make, either? For all that being team requires living outside of each other’s pockets for most of the year, sometimes the way that they most resemble family is the way they avoid talking about anything that would make it harder to be stuck together. They can talk about suits or movies or food, but that’s not the bones of a relationship. Who knows if they could handle anything real: one of them getting traded, planning for the future, marriage, kids—

Most importantly, though, is that none of this matters, because it’s nothing that Rasmus wants, at least not with Jake. 

He tucks his face harder into the pillows until the case starts getting wetter than his face.

  
  


It takes them through the rest of November, but Zach and Rasmus come back at the same time. 

Zach had been out since preseason, and Phil wants to put him on a pair, so it’s easy to stick closer to him. There’s plenty to talk about; Mila’s still young enough that it seems like something new is happening every other day, and he’s planning something for his charity that involves frisbees. It’s cool. Jake’s glad to have him.

The team goes out for dinner to celebrate, obviously. Jake is acting normal, so he doesn’t think too hard about where he sits, and he doesn’t stand up and move when Rasmus settles in the chair next to him. There are twenty-five guys on their team right now, some of them are probably going to get sent down soon, and Jake can focus on that.

Still, he’s not  _ avoiding  _ Rasmus, so he makes a point saying something rote and supportive.

“It’s good to be back. I missed you. Guys.” Rasmus is all eyes as he says it, and Jake doesn’t think about whether the pause was Rasmus making a recovery or just forgetting the word for a moment.

“Buzzin’,” Jake agrees, flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jake feels strongly about Kan Jam](https://www.instagram.com/p/BcIwBJJgL8V/) and Rasmus is [buzzing (timestamp 3:18)](https://www.nhl.com/sabres/video/showdown-reinhart-vs-ristolainen/t-277437090/c-49245403?q=ristolainen+vs+reinhart) enough to be [chirped](https://78.media.tumblr.com/3101cc9ed36ea8391543154175597a4f/tumblr_p1tfo7uJDo1r8jg9po1_540.jpg) [repeatedly](https://78.media.tumblr.com/a04c7b03158c18509a415e3814fc26b1/tumblr_p1tfo7uJDo1r8jg9po2_1280.jpg) by noted NHL defenseman, Justin Falk. Not a typo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a damn fool to think I'd be able to keep working on this steadily once the semester started up again. Thank you to everyone who's commented, kudosed, bookmarked, and subscribed, knowing people liked this meant a lot to me as I actually got it done.
> 
> Highlights in the time frame of this fic include [Jake's first goal of the season](http://samreinhartt.tumblr.com/post/168243778192/mccabe-scores-the-first-defense-goal-of-the-season) and [Rasmus'.](http://samreinhartt.tumblr.com/post/169099115037/risto-wins-it-in-ot-vs-njd-122917)

They win their first game with Rasmus back, and then get shut out three times in a row. Pommer gets one pitiful goal in a home-and-away series against the Penguins that ends in a 1-9 goal differential. 

The most unbelievable thing about it is how fucking routine it is.

  
  


 

Familiar faces always sets Rasmus on fire.

People like to talk about the physical side of Jake’s game—maybe there’s not much else to talk about, Jake figures—but Rasmus is the one who really gets off on it. Has the whole smile-as-you-go thing that drives everyone crazy down to an science. Knows the league well enough now to know where to push. And in Denver, there’s that Rantanen kid Rasmus had trained with in the summer, and Nikita.

Big Z hasn’t gotten any more quiet in the last couple years.

“Caber, maybe if you cut down on the cheese you stop shitting yourself out there,” he advises, clear from the other bench. It’s easy for Jake to tune out. Rasmus doesn’t want to. 

Personally, Jake thought some consistency sight serve them better. But, while Jake is not avoiding Rasmus, it is not Jake’s job to monitor Rasmus’ play on that level, either. 

It shows what he knows when they win 4-2.  _ Jake  _ scores, and then another assist later.

Rasmus won’t stop  _ smiling  _ at him.

The locker room is practically floating afterward. Rasmus dipped out early, but that’s fine, Jake likes his teammates, even when Jack is crowing right next to his ear about four pitches above his regular speaking voice. It’s just how he shows affection. Jake feels good, right then.

The feeling of entrapment closes right back in when Jake exits the locker room, bundled up for the flight out to Chicago, and runs into Rasmus holding a tiny, perfect human supported in the crook of his elbow, slumped forward in sleep against his shoulder. Jake feels his vision suck inward, narrowing onto soft hair and careful hands and an easy smile, before he takes in Nikita and his wife hovering closely, smiling just a little bit harder.

Nikita spots him first.

“Jake!” and it feels like he’s screaming in the vacuum Jake’s imagining, “I have someone for you to meet!”

Jake needs to turn and run. Instead, he drags himself in the opposite direction of where he wants to go, breath coming harder than it had all night. He opens his mouth and isn’t sure what will come out until he hears, “Should you be yelling right next to a baby? Isn’t that, like, rule number one?”

“She can sleep through anything, takes after me,” Nikita says, voice deep and gravelly and filled with love. “Come on, let me introduce you properly.”

Jake’s feet take him an extra step forward and he keeps his eyes fixed on Nikita’s hands as they reach towards his daughter, carefully extracting and then passing her—with Rasmus’ help—into Jake’s hands, which suddenly feel fat and careless and inadequate as a warm, soft weight settles against his chest and Nikita introduces the most precious thing, “This is my Sophie.”

Sophie has tiny blonde eyelashes that’ll darken with age, shivering on a lax face pressed over his heart.

“Lucky she looks like her mom,” he croaks, glancing up at them as he says, eyes carefully listing to the right. They all laugh. He looks back down.

It feels like a loss when it’s finally time for Sophie to shift arms, ten minutes or an hour late, others coming to say hello before they’re shuffled back east. When they turn to leave, Rasmus takes an extra step to stay in pace with Jake. Neither says anything. They never got into the habit of sitting next to each other, and they’re not starting now. Jake swings into the empty seat next to Nate and stares dead ahead until the bus rolls to a stop at the airport.

The flight from Denver to Chicago is too short of Jake to fall asleep for, but he hopes to anyway, eyes close, seat reclined, heatset tight on his head and Joshua Ferris reading him a bedtime story.

At some point, the person bracketing him in against the window must leave, because when someone wraps a hand around his shoulder and he opens his eyes, it’s Rasmus, tinted blue and orange by the airplane’s mixed lighting.

“We have a day off,” Rasmus says. “Are you going to show me around, like you said?”

It takes Jake a long moment staring at Rasmus, the small shifts of his face, before he can even place what Rasmus is talking about, and it makes his stomach hurt even as some part of his brain is twitching over Rasmus even remembering.

“It’s the middle of winter in  _ Chicago,” _ Jake says, his mouth tasting bitter. “It’s too fucking cold.”

He knows how this conversation could go, Rasmus saying it’s practically spring in Finland and there’s only bad clothes, never bad weather, Jake arguing just so they could keep talking while spending the rest of the night trying to figure out what Rasmus would like best. Instead, he tugs his headset back into place and slumps determinedly against the window.

  
  


 

The thing is, Jake thinks, staring at a Chicago hotel’s wallpaper, perfectly textured to hide every crash and bump it has endured in however long it’s been been installed,  _ the thing is, _ this is all fucking Larry’s fault.

It didn’t even take that long to remember, lying in the dark and lonely and  _ why did he ever think— _

There had been a fight in the locker room last year. Not a real one, but something to let off pent-up steam. One of the Rochester guys had been up and thinking out loud about whether he’d been going out with a girl back there long enough for it to be a  _ thing,  _ how it’d been awhile but they never really said anything about it. Larry had cut in about how stupid having  _ a talk _ was, like some soap opera, and how in Sweden you just  _ were,  _ and the other Swedes jumped in because it was a whole thing, but Jake had just been looking at Rasmus, watching him pull his tongue and his lips through his teeth and nod, not saying a word.

It was a stupid assumption.

 

 

They lose 3-2 in overtime. They get on a plane. They lose 3-2 in overtime. They go home and they win, and they lose and they lose and they lose and they win and they lose.

 

 

Jake buys a ticket to Minneapolis on the bus to Raleigh-Durham. It passes in a daze, flying back, returning to his apartment just long enough to throw the bare minimum into his carry-on before turning back to the Buffalo airport. His father picks him up in the same pick-up truck Jake had bought him as a thank-you he signed his rookie contract. They didn’t take about much on the two hour drive back to Eau Claire. Menial stuff. Road conditions. The shocking cold.

His mother is already up when they walk through the front door. She feeds them, although Jake’s so tired he can barely taste it. It’s late enough in the day that he can’t even put up a token protest that she didn’t need to anything. There’s an energy that Jake can’t quite place and doesn’t want to prod. It doesn’t quite feel like Christmas Eve, although he’s not sure that even matters at twenty-four. Still, it’s a comforting sort of silence. His apartment would have just felt dead.

He’s almost settled into the familiarity of it all when his mom asks, casually, from behind the fridge door, “Any reason for the late change in plans?”

“Sorry if I cut into your plans,” Jake says, swallowing hard around a piece of bread, his neck aching as he feels himself tense. “Church or whatever.”

His mother shoots him a look, continuing to pick at a plastic bag of shredded cheese as she responds, “When have we ever gone to Mass on Christmas Eve? The  _ crowd.” _ She makes another dismissive noise, which Jake’s father grunts in agreement to. “No, of course you’re not interrupting anything, you just seemed very… keen in the fall.”

_ And now you don’t, _ Jake hears, just as sure as she’d heard  _ I’m seeing someone  _ months ago. He stares hard down at the kitchen counter, feels his face blister as he says, “I dunno. The season’s been hard. Just didn’t want to be alone.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because she pulls back and stares directly as she asks, “You had plans the last couple years, haven’t you? With the older guys? Did something—”

“No. God, Mom. The team’s fine. They just all have their own families and stuff and I didn’t want to—I dunno. Plenty of guys go home for break.”

Guilt rattles in his chest. He can feel himself being an asshole, and it’s not what he wants. He just— he  _ just— _

“I know, honey. And we’re we’re happy to have you.” Her hands still feel so soft in his hair.

 

 

Idly, at night, surrounded by trophies that had stopped meaning much to him years ago, Jake wonders what Rasmus is doing. He knows he never goes back to Finland for these types of things; it’s a time thing, but Jake doesn’t get the impression that Rasmus is too close to his parents, anyway. It didn’t seem like something to pry at. 

Somewhere in Buffalo, there’s a bar catering exactly to that demographic. Maybe he’s with his friends, or maybe he starts the night out alone.

  
  


They lose again, and just when Jake is prepared to never win another overtime game, Rasmus scores his first goal of the season two minutes into OT against New Jersey. Jake watches from the bench as Rasmus holds his cool for a long moment he sweeps to the ice, a hollar of celebration echoing before he’s swallowed by their teammates. 

Jake’s skin feels tight, like he’s overflowing.

 

 

They go out. Of course they go out, with the Winter Classic, a home game they have to travel for, dominating New Years.

Jake would prefer to just go back to his apartment, but he doesn’t have an excuse to beg off on. Not even a dog. Probably Jake should just be happy he has friends to keep dragging him places when can feel himself being boring, like a ball-jointed mannequin with a handful of pre-recorded responses. He feels off balance even before he finishes his first drink, can already feel the brackish edge getting drunk would get.

He’s still nursing his second beer, dark and sour, when a warm heat presses against his side. He doesn’t tense but it’s a sore thought how familiar it is, even before Rasmus’ nose brushes his ear as he says, “You still have bad taste in drinks.”

It makes Jake huff and the loss of makes it harder to summon up an answer. Rasmus seems content to wait out, pressed side to side with his arm flung over Jake’s shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against his deltoid. Jake settles for, “Seems like you’re not too picky yourself.”

Rasmus grunts, displeased. Jake glances at him, then can’t look away when he sees how close Rasmus is. He doesn’t back away as he says, “I can be.”

“Okay,” Jake says, and against his own will he’s thinking of that first night, the displeased looks he made at the beer, the grins at Jake’s post-shot grimace. Everything after.

Maybe Rasmus is, too, because he leans forward again, chest to chest, mouth back at Jake’s ear as he says, “You were the first.”

Jake isn’t even sure how to process that. Maybe—but no. Rasmus doesn’t speak carelessly. But Jake still has to ask— “Like, first guy?”

Rasmus leans back to look Jake in the eye and shake his head.

When Jake lost his virginity, he had been fifteen, fumbling, and about to leave home for the first time. It hadn’t been great, but it was the thing to do. He couldn’t imagine, between then and now—

Jake feels like his brain is overheating, turning over  _ I can be, _ when Rasmus leans back and says, “You could be the first to fuck me, too.”

The fever crescendos. Jake wonders if he’s always been this transparent or if Rasmus just  _ knows  _ him, now, because the searching look in Rasmus’ eyes settle before Jake even knows what he’s thinking. He lets himself get pulled from the bar, through the crowd, out the door.

 

 

Jake expects Rasmus to stop touching him in the Uber back to his place, but instead Rasmus crowds him against the opposite window in what could pass as a drunk sprawl, to go with his pink face and radiating heat.

Maybe Rasmus is too drunk for this. Maybe he’ll stumble getting out of the car, and Jake will just wrap his arm around Rasmus’ ribs and tuck him into bed, let Rasmus forget about this night and pray he can do the same.

Jake is trying to shove his thudding heart under the floorboards as the car pulls to a stop when Rasmus jerks out of a heavy lean to start pulling at Jake again, trying to fit them both through the door. It’s not often that Rasmus really looms, but he does then, caging Jake in as they walk through the front door and then the elevator of his apartment building.

His hands feel so sure and firm against Jake’s hips, his lips against Jake’s jaw, pushing forward.

Rasmus was a  _ virgin  _ when Jake found him, that first night. It’s a guilty thought—had it been good for Rasmus? Enough to make up for the wait? What had he been waiting  _ for? _ —but also one that makes his cock twitch.

Walking into Rasmus’ familiar apartment after months away gives Jake vertigo. He opens his mouth, not even sure what he wants to say, but then Rasmus cupping his wide hands around his jaw and pulling Jake’s face up to meet his, frantic enough that there’s nothing to do but respond and get dragged under by the weight of it.

They get naked quickly, each pulling off their clothes quickly. It’s easy, made familiar by their fucking job, but part of Jake can’t help but wonder as he watches Rasmus reappear from his shirt,  _ is this good? Is this special? _

It doesn’t matter. Jake can’t read Rasmus’ face has he backs Jake into his bed, goes easy, lets his fingertips trail over taunt pale skin as Rasmus climbs further over Jake to dig through his end table. He comes back with a condom and a half-empty bottle of lube.

Jake remembers, the first time he was here, like this, joking as Rasmus dug his thumb into an unopened box of Trojans, biting at a smile as Jake called him a stud. Now, Jake wants to stop, dig through that box and see if he can account for every missing one. Instead he curls numb fingers as Ramus shoves them into his palm.

“You finger yourself?” feels like a safe enough question, even though his voice feels gnarled in his throat, especially compared to Rasmus’ soft, “Yeah.”

Rasmus is still curled over Jake, arms bracketing his head and his highs settled low over his stomach. Jake can feel the sore swelling of his dick at having Rasmus so close but not  _ doing  _ anything. He’s the one who cracked this open again, asked for Jake to fuck him. So Jake will.

He barely even makes a noise when Jake pushes up and over, sinking into the bed easy as Jake pushes his legs apart, shoves pillows under his hips. Jake can’t even  _ think, _ all cotton and granite, only muscle memory digging his fingers into the firm muscle of Rasmus’ ass, wetting them, pressing against his soft pink center.

It doesn’t to slide one then two fingers into him, Rasmus visibly relaxing around him, like he’s practiced, like this is easy on him.

Jake scissors his fingers open, more of a stretch than he had been, and Rasmus—

Sighs. Hiccups. He hadn’t been unresponsive but Jake can’t help the pained moan that gets dragged out in response.  The greedy, insolent part of him howls over how much he wants Rasmus, more than Rasmus would give him, but right how, he can take, he can consume, he can—

The skin of Rasmus’ back flushes red in the wake of Jake’s teeth, the muscle underneath twitching and tensing as Jake pushes farther down. He’s nuzzling against the small of Rasmus’ back when he finally gasps, breathless,  _ “Jake—” _

“It’s fine,” he says, “you’ll like it,” pressing a kiss to the final strong curve of Rasmus’ ass, “or, like, tell me if you don’t,” and then his free hand holds Rasmus further apart so that his lips can meet his fingers, mouthing softly, comfortingly, against Rasmus’ hole before licking fatly around the rim, feeling Rasmus tighten around his fingers as a crackling moan sounds from above.

Jake can feel his head throbbing, knowing the ache in his jaw is a  _ first  _ for Rasmus, that for all his composure, Jake can pull these reactions out of him, can make him kick and squirm and arch back for more in a second Jake takes to breathe. 

Breathing quickly becomes secondary to the sounds trickling out from above him, his mouth and chin are wet but it’s nothing compared to Rasmus’ hole, which barely puts up a fight when Jake coaxes in another finger.

And this is all for  _ Jake, _ so that Jake can fit his dick into Rasmus. It’s too much.

“Oh my god,” Jake gargles, mind overflowing. “Are you good? Do you need—”

“Okay,” Rasmus says, tucking his legs underneath himself and pushing back, like he’s presenting Jake’s handiwork, loose and soft and flushed red, showing him where to go—  

Jake’s hands shake as he tears at foil, dropping condom instead of the packet at first, taking too long to realize which side’s which after, loathing to take both hands off of Rasmus long enough to roll it down.

_ Virgin, _ some terrible part of his brain reminds him.  _ You’re going to come in his virgin ass. _

It’s an even harder idea to shake when he starts edging into Rasmus, pressing the tip against Rasmus, nudging in slowly, backing off when Rasmus squirms the first couple times before pushing forward, fraction of an inch at a time, like being sucked in through a pinprick.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Jake gasps, cliche but  _ true,  _ his arms shaking from it. His eyes can’t settle, unsatisfied by the darkness of his own eyelids, overwhelmed by the sight of himself in Rasmus and the roll of Rasmus’ shoulders and the clutter of his floors.

It’s like being held together by a thread, needing to be careful with Rasmus but wanting all of him, wanting him to feel it tomorrow and the day after that. 

Jake feels guilty almost as soon as the thought enter his mind, thrusting too hard and making Rasmus inhale sharply. “Sorry,” he gasps.

Rasmus moans, displeased, and Jake’s stomach tightens. He mumbles something, glancing back.

“What?” Jake says, bending over Rasmus, chest to back, hips stuttering where they’re pressed against Rasmus.

“I want you to feel good,” Rasmus repeats, and what kind of sense does that make?

_ “What? _ I do, baby, come on,” Jake says, then presses his mouth against the back of Rasmus’ neck before he says anything else stupid. Fuck. 

Rasmus doesn’t keep his apartment warm and Jake  doesn’t even want to think about how cold it is outside, but the bed felt like its own bubble, all heat and humidity and sweat. Their skin sticks when Jake leans back again to find his rhythm again, sliding until something makes Rasmus choke and bite his lips blood red. With a jerk, Jake falls forward again so he can bite at those lips, content to just press as close as he could and  _ grind, _ shoving one hand underneath them until it meets Rasmus’ tight against his own cock, leaking against his fingers the second they make contact.

His orgasm feels like it explodes in him, swelling through every inch in his body, wiping his mind out, leaving him limp, feeling only starting to come back when Rasmus tightens around his cock, his own orgasmn wringing them both dry, too much for Jake but better than pulling out.

 

It all vacuums back in, quicker than the orgasmn, the bad sort of hollowness except for the rock below Jake’s belly button. 

Jake shoves off, to the side, pulls off the condom and tosses it into a mostly-empty bin shoved under the end table. His breathing is still labored, sore like after a shift that drags on too long. Rasmus doesn’t sound much better.

Jake should leave. 

This doesn’t—he should go. Before he does something stupid.  _ More  _ stupid. Christ.

If he was ever drunk, it’s dried up now, right along with everything else in him. His chest feels like it’s pumping dry, malnourished, and he’d just drank salt water. 

This is stupid. This is the kind of stupid he doesn’t let himself indulge in, that Rasmus had probably seen coming—  

The bed shifts, and Jake braces himself to roll out of bed before Rasmus can ask him to.

Instead a heavy weight lands on top of him, strong hands squeezing only his arms and pressing him down, chest to chest, before Rasmus’ lips crash down, consuming, like they were back on the beginning, breaking away only to say, “Don’t leave.”

“I have to,” Jake answers, only to get a grunt and a bite in response.

His chest hurts when Rasmus pulls back again.  _ “Don’t.” _

_ “You _ left.” It feels very important to emphasize that.

Rasmus makes a sad noise, tucks his face against Jake’s neck, drops his full two-twenty pounds onto him. “I know.”

Jake knows how he should feel: indignant, used, toyed with. And he does. There will be plenty of time to feel more of it, he figures, tomorrow, and every day after that.

Maybe this can be his New Year’s Resolution. Two more days to be stupid about this, then he’s done, for real.

  
  


Rasmus is still there when Jake wakes up, almost pointedly. He’s curled around his still-charging phone, trying to beat a group chat high score in Messenger, and at some point he’d gotten up and pulled on a team hoodie. It feels like an unfair advantage to Jake, who hadn’t even felt up to turning the right direction in bed before sleep dragged him down.

He isn’t sure what to say to reintroduce himself to the waking world, so he doesn’t say anything, just rocks himself up and over the edge of Rasmus’ bed before walking at a reasonable rate into his en suite.

Once locked away, Jake would admit to taking longer than necessary. Before then, he’s not sure he could remember the last time he took a shower longer than twenty minutes. The toothbrush he’d used last time is still sitting in the toothbrush holder Rasmus himself doesn’t actually use.

Jake has a towel tied tight around his waist when he exits again. It feels a little ridiculous, given how many times Rasmus has seen all Jake has to offer, but the heat his gaze can take on is still fresh on Jake’s mind and it’s not something he’s looking to relive at the moment.

He doesn’t avoid  _ any  _ type of look from Rasmus, but he’s not sure of what to make of it, so he just ignores him as he collects his things off of the floor. So he spent the night. No biggie. No reason not to escape now, before the dust really settles in on that.

Rasmus’ voice cuts through the rationale, asking, “Do you want breakfast?”

“Not really,” Jake says, trying to shake a sock out of his pant leg. He’s not even sure how he managed that.

It’s silent as he pulls the jeans up over his hips, buttons them, and circles a few times trying to find his shirt. Rasmus is good about hanging up his suits and shit, but casual clothes tend to pile up, and Jake can’t remember exactly what shirt he was wearing. Something dark.

“Will you say and watch me eat, then?” Rasmus asks, and it sounds like a joke, but there’s a soft edge to it that Jake can’t stand, right then.

“Jesus, Rasmus,” Jake says, and it sounds harsh in his own years. He bends to grab a familiar sleeve. It wasn’t what he wore last night.  _ “You _ broke up with  _ me.  _ You really fucked me up.”

It’s too honest, and Jake regrets it. He puts on his one shirt, a thin henley that would have been appropriate at the turn of summer, and dedicates the day to buying a new favorite button-down. Maybe a nice flannel.

“I fucked myself up,” Rasmus responds, and then backtracks, “I’m sorry, I’m not—it wasn’t good, what I did. To you. I was scared, and I didn’t  _ say  _ anything about it, to you, and that’s all I’ve wanted to do. For months. I never didn’t want to be with you. Maybe I’m just an asshole, but I don’t think you stopped wanting to be with me, either.”

Jake’s phone isn’t in his pocket. He has just enough time to build up how much of a pain it’s going to be, trying to get home and find it and maybe replace it, when he sees that Rasmus has it charging next to him, on another cord spiraling out from behind his headboard.

It’s probably still mostly dead, if Rasmus had fished it out when he got dressed. This is a hostage situation.

Jake says, “You’re right, that does make you sound like an asshole. Is this some sort of, like, pent-up, sexually frustrated fixation? You waited too long and now your biological clock wants to you settle down? Because I promise, there are plenty of people out there, you don’t have to—settle.”

Rasmus frowns. “It wasn’t that long. Don’t be stupid.”

“Sure,” Jake sighs. Nearly a decade later than Jake, but they’re still young, in terms of, like, life. The fight drains out of his spine, and his shoulders slump. Somewhat numbly, Jake unbuttons his pants again, kicks them off, and slides back into Rasmus’ bed, far enough to see him. He’s going to have a headache soon, blood pumping too harshly, processing too much, but right then, he needed to think. “Why did you wait, anyway?”

Rasmus shrugs. “I don’t know if I was waiting. Either didn’t like the guy, or didn’t like him enough to risk— everything. You know.” He has the awareness to look ashamed, at that.

“Sure,” Jake repeats. He’s still not convinced the last twelve hours were real. Maybe he got rocked harder than the thought in the game, and soon he’ll wake up in a hospital bed with, like, his mom by his side. “Okay. Assuming this isn’t hormones or whatever. I still need time.”

“Time?” Rasmus echos.

“Yeah. You know. To try and make sense of any of this.”

“But that’s not a no?” Rasmus says, a question and a statement, a fire behind his eyes Jake’s not sure he’d even missed, before.

“No,” Jake confirms, and Rasmus smiles, the sort of full grin that’s nearly impossible to coax out of him day-to-day. He tips forward, lying parallel to Jake, phone forgotten as his fingers wrap around Jake’s hand instead. They’re clammy, but Jake doesn’t mind. “Besides, having an anniversary in the middle of the holiday season would be stupid. We don’t need that kind of stress in our lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The podcast Jake was listening to on the plane was The New Yorker: Fiction's episode that had, you guessed it, Joshua Ferris reading ["Going for a Beer" by Robert Coover.](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/03/14/going-for-a-beer) This was maybe a bit indulgent of me to include.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone who stuck through to the end <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://mogilny.tumblr.com/)


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